


Blood of my Heart

by LunarBlade



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Hilarity Ensues, M/M, Pain, Romance, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarBlade/pseuds/LunarBlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots of times Fenris made mistakes, and Hawke suffered in good humour. Relationship exploration. Mostly fluff and humour.<br/>(This is not part of my modern AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Obligatory Reading Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be working on the prompts for Champion on Kirkwall Street, but I've written these a while ago, and finally decided to post them.

Fenris was not a patient man. His favourite pastimes included eviscerating people and running ahead of the party so that he might be the first to eviscerate new people. Sitting quietly was a challenge, unless he was engaged in drinking, gambling, or both. Sitting still gave an open invite to his memories, such as they were. The disquieting ones from his recent past, and the tattered ones from his life prior. 

So now, as he glanced at the man who was the first to give him good memories, he was conflicted. 

“Continue,” urged Hawke, lounging so far down the chair by the fire, he was close to sliding off of it entirely. His legs stretched as close to the hearth as he could bear. “You were doing so well.”

Scowling at the relaxed mage, he looked back at the page in front of him. He was sitting at the drawing room’s table, a short distance away from the man, the book of Shartan open before him. He was on the third page.

“He... lu… look--looked… arowond--  _ around…  _ him… himself…” he read haltingly, fighting back the frustration of his own ineptitude and slowness. Hawke had read the page prior out loud. His voice had been smooth and sure and comfortable with the larger words and the complex punctuation. Fenris had to look at each word in turn, decipher all of its letters and then try and guess how to pronounce them. 

“Now, spell me  _ ‘himself’ _ .” Fenris’ jaw worked as he looked away from the page. The deal was to recite the letters from memory, not from the page. He managed to stiffly say,

“I don’t do spells. You’re the mage.” Hawke chuckled. It wasn’t the first word he had challenged him with tonight. Some were harder than others, and Fenris felt that no matter how many letters he memorised, more kept on being created. He didn’t trust that they had actually stayed the same amount since he had started learning how to read. The first time Hawke had written out the Thedian alphabet, the elf just wanted to quit there and then. There were far too many to ever remember, let alone remember what they’re called after their order has been jumbled up to make a word.

He did some mental calculations and did the best job he could on the word. It was an easy one, relatively. Some words, Fenris had previously decreed, were mages who used hidden blood magic to trip him up with hidden letters. Hawke had laughed at that.

He wanted more than anything to reach the end of this page to pass the book back to Hawke. The mage, on the other hand, seemed infinitely patient, reclining comfortably and just listening, occasionally correcting his reading.

“He… reekted… to the… noice…?”

“‘He  _ reacted  _ to the  _ noise’ _ .” Hawke corrected in a calm rumble. With his chin pressed to his chest and his arms clasped in front of him, it was a surprise he could speak at all.

“It’s an S. If they wanted  _ noise  _ to sound like  _ that  _ it would need the other one. The pointy Ess.”

“A zed, true, but that’s how it is.”

Fenris frowned again, agitated. He scratched at his scalp, messing his own hair irritably. He couldn’t imagine a time where these scrawls would flow easily. 

“He… reacted to the noise,” He quoted, drawing the S sound in a long Z just to make a point, then continued to the next sentence, “Heh-He’aaring it… cone... _ come _ claw…  _ closer _ .”

“Hearing.” Hawke corrected, “ _ Hearing _ it come closer.”

“No.” Fenris said, his nerves fraying, “It’s written the same as this ‘react’ word. An E and an A.”

Hawke’s face broke into that lopsided smile that always hit Fenris right in the heart. The man stretched, getting up to pour himself some more wine from the cabinet across the room. “Yes, it is. Good catch.” There was no sarcasm in that deep voice, “But they’re pronounced differently.”

“Why?!” The elf slammed his fist into the table, rattling his own empty wineglass. Hawke just chuckled to himself,

“Couldn’t tell you. Because… Language?” He made a circular little urgent gesture with his wine glass, still holding the bottle in the other. It was a prompt for Fenris to continue. Gritting his teeth, he tore his gaze from the smug mage and back to the battle on the paper. 

“He ree-aached--  _ reached _ ” he corrected himself through his rising temper, “To his swoo… swoh’rd--  _ sword _ , un...bookling--  _ unbuckling  _ it… from… his… shee--sheeth.”

“Good. Good!” Encouraged Hawke, leaning his hips on the low china cabinet where the wine was slowly warming to room temperature. “Spell ‘sword’.”

He tried and valiantly failed. Stupid hidden letters. He hated getting it wrong. Loved the pride that shone from Hawke’s face when he got it right. Perhaps a part of him still associated even the smallest failure with pain and punishment, but he hadn’t time to dwell on it. He desperately wanted more wine to take the edge off his temper, but the agreement was a refill of wine per page finished. Fenris had finished his glass after the first paragraph on this accursed page, and there was still a good two thirds to go. He grabbed the roots of his hair with his free hand, his other pointing at the next word.

“Blu--err--blood, poomping--”

“Pumping.”

“Teh… throff--”

“Through.”

“ _ Through… _ his… veins… until he… ca-yufft--?”

“Caught.”

“Argh!” Fenris rose to his feet, temper finally igniting. He’d never get a hold of this! Each word a whole battle, and the army of letters never faltered or routed. It was a battle, he felt then, he couldn’t hope to win. Whatever chance he had of learning to read was gone with the rest of his memories. He picked up the book and hurtled it away. He had meant to throw it harmlessly against the nearby wall, but it was heavier than he thought, and the leather binding stuck to his fingers longer than he expected. He knew the throw was off immediately as it left his hands, and knew, with a fighter’s unerring instinct, that it would collide with Hawke’s face.

It did. 

The Mage’s head snapped back, and he stumbled into the wine table, which tipped over, his own glass leaving his hands. There was a clatter and the sound of breaking glass. His head hadn’t been turned fully towards the incoming projectile, at least, saving him from a possible broken nose.

“ _ Kaffas! _ ” Fenris swore, quickly scrambling across his dilapidated drawing room to prop the mage up with a hand at the human’s back.

“Are you alright, Hawke? I’m sorry.”

Hawke blinked at him unevenly a few times when he removed the leather-bound tome from his face. The wine had splashed all over him, reminding Fenris of blood. 

“Did anyone…” Hawke’s voice caught when he spoke, breaking into high pitch as he slurred deliriously, “Did anyone ever tell you you have the most delicious voice…?” He blinked a few more times and shook his head, hand coming to his forehead, presumably to try to stop the room from spinning. “Ow.” He then grinned at Fenris, “You can read me the whole of the Chantry’s most dull sermons and I’d listen with rapt attention.”

“ _ That _ book would be even heavier.” Fenris threatened, though he was smiling now. “I think my reading it might be dangerous to your health.”

“If I die from it, I hope you’ll read my eulogy, then get very mad at the spelling of it and flip over my casket.” Hawke reached out a hand to put on the back of Fenris’ neck, lying in his arms. He made no attempt to get up, seemingly comfortable where he was. On the floor, one leg propped over the overturned table, covered in wine.

“That would be very scandalous.” Fenris agreed, unable to keep the smile off his face. Feeling pressure on the back of his neck from Hawk’s insistent hand, he leaned down to kiss the man, tasting the wine.

“We better get you cleaned up.” he purred, licking the corner of the man’s mouth. 

“Yes, let’s.” The mage agreed, pulling him down to kiss him again. “Spell ‘wine’...” He requested breathlessly.

With each letter the elf replied there was a kiss or a lick of the splashed wine,

“B… E… D…” He paused, licking his lips, “N… A… U…”

Hawke chuckled again, bringing their mouths together again, though he murmured, “You misspelled ‘now’...”

It was the last words they used for quite a while.


	2. The Maker's Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which foreplay turns dangerous.

“One of us has to do this, you lackadaisical fool.” Fenris snapped impatiently as Hawke complained yet again. Fenris was doing the dishes in the basin in the kitchen. Hawke had brought over a meal Orana had made, and insisted they stepped outside to the Hanged Man for dessert and cards after. Fenris, though generally used to living in squalor at this point, had a pet peeve regarding dishes. Denarius had been insistent on clean dishes and now whenever the ex-slave saw a pile of uncleaned kitchenware, it make him unreasonable anxious. 

“Dishes. You’re turning down drinks with your friends at the Hanged Man for dishes.”

“They need to be done.” Fenris replied sternly.

“You live in a house that still has corpses, Fenris.” The man noted, an edge of incredulity in his voice as he gestured towards the door to the foyer, “ _ Corpses! _ ”

“Washing  _ those  _ in the basin won’t amount to anything.” He countered and Hawke made a noise at the his logic, or lack thereof. 

“You’re ridiculous.” Hawke scoffed, crossing his hands over his chest. He looked around, bored, until his eyes fell on an object on the kitchen table.

“Oh, shit.” He muttered in surprise. Fenris gave him a glare. 

“Did you forget to bring me a dish?” If there was one thing that irked the elf, it was to dry his hands and put his gauntlets back on, only to find that the mage hadn’t done his part properly and there were still dishes left.

“It would seem so.” He tried giving Fenris his dazzling smile, but it can be said to the warrior’s credit that he (outwardly) resisted it quite well. He turned to face Hawke, seeing him raise up a small plate upon which, earlier, they had peeled an orange to eat as part of breakfast. A few slices remained. Smart enough to look abashed, Hawke handed Fenris the plate. The elf took it, irritated, and despite soapy hands, popped a peeled slice into his mouth. 

“Can I have one?” When Fenris glared at him, the mage added meekly, beggingly, “Please?”

Something about the way he said the word, and it melded with Fenris’ irritation in a way it hadn’t ever before. It was a mix between heading straight to his nerves and straight to his loins.

“Knees.” He said, before he thought about it, before it really registered that he had the capacity to made such a demand. And before shame and self-loathing could set in, the mage dropped to his knees before him. The smile on his face unmistakably playful, unmistakingly aware of the powerplay. 

Hawke shuffled closer, on his knees, towards Fenris. When he spoke, it was a husky whisper.

“May I please _ have some? _ ” He drew out the request, choosing his words carefully for the most innuendo he could manage. Now it went straight to Fenris’ loins. Something about standing over him, capable of denying him his wish, capable of telling him what to do... It was beyond intoxicating. It wasn’t something the two had ever played at before, probably a conscious decision on Hawke’s part.

He picked up another peeled piece, and put it to his own mouth. Hawke’s eyes followed it hungrily, his smile opening to allow his husky breathes freedom..

It was doing things to the elf he had never thought such a simple submission would do. He didn’t eat the whole slice, just slowly bit half of it off, finally offering the other half to the man.

Hawke devoured it hungrily, making sure to capture the warrior’s fingers fleetingly as he kissed the food out of his hands. 

The elf never realized that this was something that would turn him on, but now he knew without a doubt he had to have the man in front of him. Forget their friend at the Hanged Man, forget the dishes… 

“Mm… Soap.” Hawke stated unromantically, chewing thoughtfully. Fenris resisted an urge to smack him. 

“May I rise now?” The playfulness returned in full when he had finished.

“No.” Fenris breathed, now leaning his back against the counter, one hand steadying himself against the marble countertop, the other still holding the plate. His posture was such that there could have been no doubt in Hawke’s mind as to Fenris’ current mindset. At kneeling height he was ideally situated to notice. With a grin hiding none of his eagerness or hunger, the mage shuffled closer, with his teeth he grasped one of the cords on Fenris’ breeches, and pulled. The sight was enough to make the elf weak in the knees, and he buckled momentarily. 

This tipped the plate in his hands, and a single drop of citrus juice escaped. It landed solidly in Hawke’s eye.

The mage yelped in pain, body instinctually rocketing backwards. A stray elbow nicked Fenris in the groin, and the plate smashed on the floor as both hands went there. 

Hawke was convulsing on the floor, over dramatic in his swears, both hands pressed to the offended eye.

“Holy Maker’s smiting hand!” He cried. Fenris uncoiled, having been barely hurt, more startled. He kneeled at Hawke’s side, trying to pry the frantic hands from his face to inspect the damage.

“The Maker hath smote me!” The mage called out, “He smote me right in the eye!”

“The Maker isn’t involved in this.” Fenris huffed, trying hard not to roll his eyes at the drama unfolding before him. He pulled the mage to a sitting position.

“I am become as Andraste,” Hawke continued moaning loudly, “To whom fire is as water. Such shall the burning in my veins remain evermore.” He was calming down, and Fenris finally managed to pry his hands from his face. 

“Let me see.” He demanded, tugging with two fingers at the skin around the closed eye.

Hawke made a miserable sound, like an injured Mabari pup. Fenris knew quite well that he was being a big baby.

“Open up, now.” He demanded more strongly. Perhaps still operating on the previous powerplay, or just acquiescing, Hawke opened his eyes. The afflicted eye was a little red, and very teary, but he was fine. Fenris’ hands remained on the soft skin around the eye, and a dribble of soapy water descended towards the mage’s eye. Startled, Fenris brought his other hand to wipe it away before it could aggravate the situation. He had forgotten that his other hand was just as soapy.

Hawke’s howling returned twofold and he fell back to the floor, flailing tragically. 

“Maker! Why hath your rage come upon me again! I am but your humble servant! Please take me to thy side rather than torment me so!” 

“I can send you to him right now.” Fenris threatened. 

Wailing continued. Hawke’s rants become more and more imaginative. At around the part where he had decided that Andraste herself had decided to burn his eyes out so that he might join her in the Fade to become her eternal blind consort, Fenris got up and stepped out of the kitchen.

“You’re right.” He spoke to the mess on the floor, “The Hanged Man sounds amazing just about now.” He took his cuirass and buckled it quickly, grabbing his gauntlets to don on the way. He could hear an indignant “Hey!” when the door closed behind him. He didn’t go through with the unspoken threat of abandonment, just waited outside the door until a scrambling, red-eyed Hawke came tumbling through it. Fenris couldn’t help but laugh.

“That hurt.” Hawke had finally said, frowning at being tricked.

“Sorry.” Fenris half-heartedly offered, too amused to be genuine.

They headed to the Hanged Man together. When Varric had wondered why Hawke looked like he had been crying for three days straight, Hawke had made up a fantastical story, worthy of Varric, of how Fenris had threatened to leave him, and how it took Hawke three days worth of tears to convince the elf to stay.

Not believe a word of it, Varric turned to him, “Three days of hearing him pleading? I’m amazed you stuck around.”

Giving Hawke a wicked smile, Fenris answered, “I do enjoy him on his knees, begging.”

The stunned silence at the table was broken by Hawke’s hearty laugh.


	3. Light of my Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a question is asked while Fenris is far too sleepy to process.

****

It was one of those quiet nights at the Amell manor. Fenris was napping, sprawled on the bed over the sheets. He was lying the width of the bed, legs sticking out one end and arm dangling on the other. The fire crackled in the fireplace. He had returned from helping Aveline with some bandits, took a bath, and while Hawke was working on some estate business, he had let his tired limbs rest, eventually drifting to a semi-conscious half sleep. Hawke’s work table was in a corner of the room, and the shuffling of paper and scratching of the quill made a lullaby with the snapping of the logs.

“Fenris,” Hawke called to him. The elf stirred and blinked bleary eyes at the mage, who wasn’t looking at him. He was seated at the desk, peering at some papers. “Fenris,” He said again when he got no reply, “Blood of my heart, soul of my body. Will you step forth and be the light of my life?”

The casual tone did little to lessen the impact the sweet words had on Fenris. His heart skipped a beat.

“Are you…” His voice was hoarse from relaxation and emotion, “Are you  _ proposing? _ ” 

Hawke stiffened in his chair. After a long moment when neither breathed, he turned around in his seat and met his eyes with a playful smile.

“And if I was, what would you say?”

Fenris rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Was this really happening? For a long moment he simply stared at Hawke. Marriage? What Cleric would wed them? An apostate mage and and a runaway slave...

“Isn’t there…” Fenris blurted out, “...Supposed to be a ring involved?” He wanted to smack himself the moment the words came out. It was the first question that rose into his mind, and he certainly hadn’t meant to voice it. Hawke’s brows shot up, though his smile didn’t ebb.

“I can get you one, if you want. I’ve told you you can keep the magical ones, but if you want something special--”

“--No. Forget it.” 

Another long pause commenced. It ended with Hawke this time. He said,

“Is that a no?”

“No.”

“No, it’s  _ not  _ a no, or no, you’re rejecting me.”

“I’m not rejecting you.” Fenris finally managed to get enough wakefulness to sit up, cross-legged, on the bed. Hawke casually leaned one arm over the backrest of the chair.

“Are you  _ accepting  _ me?” He drew back a little, perhaps a little surprised.

“I didn’t say that, either.”

When this silence stretched out, Hawke started laughing. 

“You’re very romantic.” He drawled sarcastically, though with good humour.

Fenris couldn’t help but pout, 

“You’re the one who isn’t doing it right.” He scoffed. With that grin that made Fenris’ knees go weak and prevented any attempt at clear thought, Hawke rose from his chair to kneel before the elf, at the foot of the bed. Fenris was sure his face must have been a mask of pure shock as Hawke met his gaze, took one hand in both of his and said with infinite tenderness,

“Fenris, blood of my heart, soul of my body, light of my life. What do you say? You and I? Together until the end of days?”

Fenris’ response as again, less than romantic,

“Are you serious?” And again he wanted to smack himself. Hawke chuckled. 

“I’m always serious.” He lied with humour dripping from his tone.

“Err… Yes.” Fenris stammered, then added quickly, “That is insufficient…” He thought for a quick moment, eyes darting between Hawke’s dark orbs and he breathed,

“So long as blood flows through these veins, every breath I draw belongs to you. Every drop of blood, every inch of me is yours.”

He could see the effect the words had on the mage instantly, that softening of the eyes, the light that shone through that smile. The mage swiftly rose to his feet, grabbing Fenris’ face to passionately kiss the man. The latter reciprocated in full, his heart a maelstrom of emotions. Only Hawke could chase the hate from his heart. Only Hawke could give him real joy. Kisses deepened, the deepest regard and complete trust transcribed in each. Buckles were fumbled with, drawstrings loosened. 

It was some time later, both of them panting and spent, that Hawke said.

“That took an unexpected turn.” He chuckled into Fenris’ shoulder.

“Hmm?” The elf purred, not bothering to open his eyes. “How so?”

“The document I was working on... “ He brethed, blindly and vaguely waving towards the table behind him, “I needed more light to read the fine print.”

“What does that have to do with anything.”

“Light of my life…” He had enough energy to lift his head and look at Fenris, “I wanted you to come over to the desk and… you know… light up.” 

Fenris stilled, eyes opening to stare blankly at the bed’s canopy until he drew a shuddering breath.

“You wanted me to…”

“Stand near me and be bright. So that I could read. Awfully small text, there.” Hawke confirmed with insufferable cheerfulness.

“You were not… in fact, asking for my hand in marriage.”

“Not at first, no. I honestly just needed more light. I thought I’d turn the phrase nicer, though.”

“So, really, it was  _ me  _ who proposed?” Fenris croaked, finally looking at Hawke. The mage burst out laughing, a hearty, full sound that made his chest rumble against Fenris’. 

“Would seem so.”


End file.
